


Heartsong

by durinsheir (ShadowChanger)



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Arkenstone - Freeform, Erebor is Alive, Gen, Mizimel Hobbit Anthology, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-15
Updated: 2015-01-15
Packaged: 2018-03-07 15:37:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3176892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShadowChanger/pseuds/durinsheir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Hey y'all! So last spring I got to participate in a Hobbit anthology fanbook, Mizimel, and this is what I wrote for that. There's slight deviation from actual film/book canon events, but all canon-compliant deaths still happen.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Heartsong

**Author's Note:**

> Hey y'all! So last spring I got to participate in a Hobbit anthology fanbook, Mizimel, and this is what I wrote for that. There's slight deviation from actual film/book canon events, but all canon-compliant deaths still happen.

i.

Erebor, they named her. Just as their forefathers named her sister Khazad-dûm, her Children chose to call her their Lonely home. On this day, she stands weathered and bloody, the bodies of her Children, tangled with the First Children and the Abominations and the Men, laid at her feet. She weeps for them, wails with the wind, as the dead are counted. Dead – dead – dead – her Children, dead and gone – stolen by sickness and greed and violence. Her strongest Son and the two bright-hearted boys, struck down by bloody, mortal horrors. She Sings to their lost souls, and remembers.

She remembers. Since she was raised, thrown skyward, in that Time Before Thought, she remembers. Solidly, she has stood. Alone, she has stood. The blood of Arda coursed through her, below her, and she waited.

 

ii.

Her veins grew golden; her bones encrusted with color – ruby, emerald, opal. Winter dusted her highest peak while summer painted her reaching feet. The First Children began their roaming, never once casting a favorable eye to her slopes. It did not matter; they were not her First Children – the true First Children, Arda’s Children – and their inattention was not of import. And so, she waited.

Ages moved around her, Ages of mortal War and Strife and Horror, and amidst it all, her Heart appeared. Her Heart, her Heart, her Heart, crafted stolen lost found cast into fire, Arda’s blood carrying it and curling around it until it was hers. Her very being grew with her Heart, her golden veins spreading wider and deeper and her jeweled bones gaining impossible clarity and beauty. With her Heart as her Strength, she dug deep into Arda until she touched the Song.

A new Age began, and with this Age, so she began to Sing. Quietly, at first, soft thrumming deep in her bones. The echoes traveled to her brother in the North and returned bearing whispers of cold caverns and scaly residents. So, she Sang louder, Calling Calling Calling to the setting sun. Her Heart grew stronger, her reach longer – but no replies came forth. The Song faltered within her, and she began to despair. Where were her Children?

She withdrew.

She waited.

And then.

An echo  
            echo  
                   echo  
returned from the West, from the West, West.

Her most lengthy siblings, their reach great and terrible in all directions, returned to her the Song of their Children. Arda’s Children! Found, at last, by her elder brothers and sisters. She marveled at every note; her siblings housed incredible multitudes. The Children delved so deep, uncovering her siblings’ bones and veins and transforming them into grand works of transcendent beauty. There, in the light of the setting sun, the Children thrived. Each echoed note of her Song was a treasure, woven into her Heart. Arda’s Children were beautiful and talented, and she was filled with pride for her siblings. Envy, too, but pride foremost. She continued to Sing, and she waited. Her own Children would come soon. She Sang for them. She waited.  
But, soon, the echoes changed. Darkened. Deepened. Quieted. The Song was now filled with despair and fear, and she reached reached reached strained to touch her siblings to seek out the source of their sorrow –

\- ancient fear and ancient fire – fire burning stone burning bones blackening veins of sacred silversteel crushing jeweled skin to poisoned powder – ancient fear and ancient fire, from Time Before Thought, given form to mar the beauty to mar the stone to forever damn the halls below and throughout –

Her siblings screamed, their howls tearing through Arda and the Song, and she cried out with them. The Children were felled by the ancient fear and ancient fire, their bones interred in lifeless passages, and Khazad-dûm was empty.

Empty.

The Song became a Lament, echoing from the mist-shrouded peaks to her lonely slopes. Arda Lamented for the Children, for their loss, and Sorrow overcame all. Her sisters wept for their Children, her brothers did their best to slow the corrupted fires – ancient fear and ancient fire – from sapping the strength from their stone, leeching their Hearts, and poisoning their veins.  
Slowly, painfully, inexorably – her mist-draped siblings weakened, faltered, until, one day, the echoes  
                            echoes  
              ceased.  
Silence.  
Silence from the West.  
And so she was silent as well, silent for her lost siblings. She wept alone, soundlessly, her Heart drained of light and color until there was nothing left but fury and hate and _rage_. Never, never, she swore to her Heart, never would she allow such poison to conquer her. She would remain, and she would withstand every obstacle, every attack, and every sickness that would stain her. She was born of fire, and to fire she would return before she gave up her Heart to such evils.

And so, she waited.

Bided her time.

Plotted.

Waited.

Ancient fear and ancient fire – if it came for her, she would be ready. The murder of her siblings and their Children would be avenged beneath her lonely slopes.

But it was not to be, for the demon of Before settled far below, beyond her Heart’s reach, into the Deeps, and did not emerge. Warily, she watched. Warily, she waited.

She lifted her Song from the carcass of her tallest sister, collecting what untainted music remained, and began to reach South. She was below the young, lively Greenwood when she first heard them.

Children.

Arda’s Children, marching East, their hearts and souls resonating with _her_ Song.

Her fires surged, fueling her Heart and nearly blowing her peaks to the heavens. They were her siblings’ lost Children, escaping their doomed halls, marching to the beat of her Song. She reached for them, Calling them, and swelling with pride when they Called in return.

The brightest souled Child, determined but wounded at heart, looked forever to the East, searching for her. She Sang to him at night, humming lullabies and weaving his dreams with her golden veins. Thráin, he was named, and when his hands first touched her stone in the early light of morning, she was gladdened.

They became her Children, slowly, generation by generation. Through their beautiful minds and skillful hands, they hollowed great caverns and tunnels beneath her skin. She helped as well as she was able, humming to them where to turn, where to mine. They loved her golden veins and jeweled bones; joy emanated from every soul at her riches. Erebor she was named by her Children, and fondly referred to as their Lonely Mountain. Thráin became the First of his Name, crowned King Under the Mountain, and she thought it was a lovely title, and gifted him with the her purest sapphires.

Her Heart, however, she kept hidden.

It was not time, she was not ready, to give it to her new Children. The proper recipient was not yet born, and so, she waited.

Time moved around her and her Children multiplied.

Time stopped for her and her Children left her.

Thráin’s body was entombed in her stone as his spirit departed her halls.

Thráin’s heir answered the Song of her grey brother.

Her Children followed their king.

She

was

alone.

None stayed with her, no matter how she begged and wept. Her halls filled with water from the lakes beneath her feet and her stone moaned, but her Children did not stay. What had she done wrong? She had given her Children everything – nearly – and they had been happy, hadn’t they? Deep within her stone, she thought she might be grateful she had not given away her Heart only to have it Broken. When – if – when her Children returned, she would do better, give more, and they would never leave her again.

Three hundred and eighty mortal years – she counted, for the first time since the Dark One raised her from the land, she counted the passage of time – crawled by before she felt the first responses to her feeble Song. Warily, she narrowed her focus, and watched their approach. They carried memories of her Children.

They also carried memories of frozen scales and lives full of fear, and she was saddened. Their leader, so like her Thráin, rallied his people to her doors. She kept them locked for a time, watching, waiting. Thrór stayed by her side always, his hands smoothing over her carven doors and tough skin. He sang to her in her own language, tracing patterns and shapes with his clever fingers. Never losing hope, he stayed, and he waited.

She Sang to his dreams one night, just as she had to Thráin, and listened to his answer carefully. She would know from the start what to expect from this Child. It was not in her nature to turn away Children in need, of course, but providing shelter is much different than providing a _home_.

Thrór was filled to brim with hope, love, and clever plans for her halls. Everything in his soul was tinged with worry, like Thráin’s had been. Unlike Thráin, though, he worried for _her_. She drew back, surprised. Thráin had loved her, in his own way, but never had he thought of her as _aware_. Thrór spoke to her directly, pleading with her to open the doors – he knew she was wary, but these Children were homeless, wounded, and alone, he told her. They needed her. I need you, he whispered to her, face pressed against the stone, his fists bloody from hammering on the door.

She broke the locks on the doors and sent them crashing to the floor.

Thrór wept tears of joy, and her Heart reached for him.

They became her Children at once, returning her halls to ten times their former glory. She crowned Thrór with diamonds, opals, and sapphires, and unearthed a vein of silver in his honor. He loved her, and she him. He would not leave her, and neither would his heirs, he swore, and she believed him.

But, for all their love, her Heart would not reveal itself to Thrór alone. There was another, and so, she waited.

Thráin, Second of his Name, was born. She doted on him, but her Heart remained hidden. The wealth of her Children grew tenfold beneath her skin, mined from her bones and veins and carefully crafted by their hands. New caverns were dug in order to hold these riches. Old caverns were expanded. It was startling, the sheer weight of the fruits of her mines. She could feel her stone grinding in places, and set out to warn Thrór in her Song.

He brushed off the warning, assuring himself and his miners that it was safe. Mollified, she retreated into the safety of her Heart’s chamber, and quieted her Song.

Thrór did not appear to notice.

But she was not a cruel Mother, and it would not do to ignore such dangerous tunnels when miners continued to use them. Her Children needed her, and she would never abandon them or risk their lives. She chased out the miners with rumbling and cracks, closed the tunnels with stone and water, and redirected the golden veins.

The miners thanked her with their hands, but no word came from Thrór and his son.

Childishly, she dried up her silvered vein.

The King Under the Mountain raged at her. She directed his attention to the excessive treasures he had already amassed. He raged louder, and, in one damning thought, shut her out of his mind completely.

Shocked, she withdrew from the King Under the Mountain. He, who had loved her from the moment he saw her, who had promised to never leave her, who had nearly been awarded her Heart – he shut her out.

Thráin was still open to her, but he did not know her like his father had – to him, she was Erebor, the Lonely Mountain, but nothing more. Only a few of their people knew her Song for what it was, and she treasured each and every one of these Children dearly.

In her close attention to those few, she almost missed the addition to Thrór’s family – a son for Thráin, his first.

His eyes looked directly into her the first time she touched his soul. Blue, bluer than the first Thráin’s sapphires, finding her in the stone above his head. He Sang to her before she could utter a single note, and her Heart nearly exploded with joy.

He was the one.

Her Heart was his, from that very moment. Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór, Prince Under the Mountain, he was named. To her, he was only Thorin, _âzyungel_.

Not even thirty mortal years moved around her before her Heart worked its way to the surface. It would go straight to Thorin, she thought. She told him so, Singing to his dreams, and he smiled in his sleep.

A deep-miner pulled her Heart from the stone the very next day. She did not like his hands on it, but Thorin was not a miner, and thus could not be there for the surfacing.

She watched curiously as the miner’s face was washed with waves of blue, white, and golden light. He cradled her Heart in his rough hands, his eyes wide with awe. He abandoned his post and raced to the top of the mine, and she followed. She Sang briefly to Thorin, urging him to find the miner, to find her Heart. Cleverly, she redirected the miner through the tunnels until he and Thorin were on the same level. Her Heart was clutched uncomfortably tight in his hands as he ran. He was shouting – _the king, find the king!_ – and she wished she could shush him. Thrór was not to touch her Heart, no indeed. Only Thorin, who was close, so close she could feel her stone vibrating.

There! Rounding the corner in a rush, came Thorin, and with him, Thrór. The miner fell to his knees before them and raised her Heart to their bewildered gazes. She watched, eager so eager, as Thorin’s eyes widened and were filled with her Heart’s light. His face went slack and one hand slowly reached out.

Her world contracted violently – time slanted away from her – her stone shuddered –

Thrór wrapped his hands around her Heart.

Stared deep into the shining depths.

Eyes darkened, eyes emptied, mind flattened.

Clutched it tight to his chest, tucked against his skin, coldhotcold –

wrong _wrong_ WRONG

Her entire being convulsed as the King Under the Mountain ordered for jewel cutters and goldsmiths. His mind was so lost, so far gone, how had she not seen it how how how could she let him touch her Heart how did it come to this?

Thorin made a punched out sound, staggering slightly before shaking his head and pasting a smile on his face. His eyes were washed out, nearly completely devoid of color. She cried out to him, begging him to take her Heart from his grandsire.

He stood by, shaking, as her Heart was named divine, king’s jewel, Arkenstone.

He wept with her when the jewelers cut into her Heart and shaped it to their king’s will.

She retreated to her core, her Song a mere whisper. She had failed. Her Heart was wounded, her Children corrupted by greed. She had failed. Perhaps it had been her interference that had ruined everything? Perhaps, she thought as she pulled away from her Children. Her Song faded from their minds gradually until, out of all her Children, only Thorin remained. She would not leave him, _could_ not leave him. They hummed to each other in the dark of night, comforting and healing. In time, he swore, he would return her Heart. She reminded him that it belonged to him. He always frowned at that.

Years shifted by. Thorin gained a sister and a brother, one dark and the other golden, both strong hearted. She did not Sing to them, even when Thorin begged her. She could not.

Thrór continued to amass treasures from her stone, no matter how she tried to deny him. The greed poisoned her stone until she thought she might collapse. No good would come of this, she knew. Dread filled her thoughts.

Greed summoned fire and ruin.

She felt him from afar, massive wings and diamond scales, his mind completely aflame. He was racing toward her, spewing sparks and smoke. The gold and the jewels and the silver and the platinum and the steel called to him, beckoned him to come closer, to take to burn to destroy to pillage to raze.

She shook her foundations, howling for Thorin.

He is coming

Who

He who would burn you all He comes for the gold Leave the gold Save yourselves Save my Children I cannot protect you Please run away

Thorin, her beautiful, brave fool, tried to meet the fire face to face. She cried out to him, pleading, as she jammed the front gate. The dragon broke through, killing hundreds of her Children in a single blow. Distantly, through the horror and anger and pain, she felt hands on her Heart – Thrór, attempting to save his treasures. A widened crack in her floor sent him sprawling, her Heart leaping clear of his grasp. The dragon broke into the caverns in a shower of rock and fire in the same instant. A hellish roar of triumph ravaged her stone as the beast dove into her gold. Her Heart was flung into the fray, swallowed at once by the swirling waves of metal. Was this her reward, then? The wrong hands held her Heart, and now a dragon burned her Children alive.  
Thorin led them away. He saved as many as he could, his will strong even as tears streamed down his face. The dragon continued to romp in her golden caverns, not caring for the lives he ended, and Erebor was filled with rage.

She collapsed tunnels, flooded mines, and retracted veins of gold and silver, all the while howling at the dragon. Smaug cared not for her fury. Even as the last of her Children fled the stone they once called home, the dragon curled around the gold contentedly.

Nothing she did affected the beast. No amount of stone-shaking moved his bulk. He laughed at her, laughed as he devoured the remaining corpses.

She wept.

Thorin, dear Thorin, was beyond her stone now, his Song eventually fading into nothingness.

She was alone.

Again.

In her despair, she poisoned her stone. The lands surrounding her withered and died. Surely this would drive the dragon away. With no food, he would be forced to move on.

But it was not to be.

Smaug, sensing her intentions, buried himself deep in the gold and slept.

So deep was his sleep that she would have thought him dead had not his burning heart continued to heat the gold. A century moved through them both, and still the dragon did not wake. The earth around her remained dry and desolate. No Songs reached her, only the echoes of her dead Children.

She failed them, she knew. Failed her Children and doomed them to a terrible end. She did not know where Thorin led them, or even if they still lived. The dragon was her punishment, punishment for over-confidence and allowing Thrór to be consumed by greed. The Great Song took her Children because she was unfit to house them, and she accepted this judgment. Her own Song faltered and faded, and her Heart remained lost beneath the mass of gold.

She waited, but not for her Children. She waited for the End of the Song, waited for her misery to be ended. The dragon’s ability to sleep endlessly was a source of great envy to her. She hated him with all her being.

Time moved around her, slow and relentless. Years meant nothing to her now. The Song continued, and she waited for it to end, for it to –

_Erebor_

So soft was the whisper that she almost ignored it.

_-to reclaim our home – Erebor - ..arves of Erebor_

Her Song lifted from the stone. Lake water muffled the notes, but the sound was unmistakable.

Thorin.

It was _Thorin_.

Like a dead thing resurrected, her Song rushed forth. He was on the lake, so _close_ , so close to her once more. Others, other Children were with him – twelve, she counted. Twelve of her Children, but only two had ever laid eyes upon her stone. It did not matter; she loved them all. There was another mortal creature with her Thorin, a small thing, his Song full of chiming notes and green hills. Thorin’s own Song occasionally branched off quietly to weave with the small one’s.

Joy filled her stone. She reached out – and snatched back her Song at once.

The dragon! The beast still slept within her halls. If he knew Thorin had returned, he would kill him.

She would not allow that to happen.

Determined, she began to quietly warn Thorin away. It hurt her, but she had to save him from ruin. She would not fail again.

Thorin, the stone-head, ignored her warnings.

I’m coming home, he told her. I’m coming home.

But the dragon –

We will kill him

And after that, he ignored the rest of her pleas. Every day that passed, he drew closer to her. Those with him followed without question, without regret. The small one – hobbit, chided Thorin quietly one day – remained a mystery to her. Thorin’s Song continued to weave seamlessly with the hobbit’s. He did not question the connection, so neither did she.

When Thorin brought his company to her feet, she sealed her doors; while the dragon still lived, her strongest Son would not set foot within her stone. They searched – oh how they searched, their minds filled with hope and wonder for what lay within – but she remained closed to them. The secret door was found high on her western slope, and she wept when Thorin begged her to open it for him. She would not risk his life; never again would she lose her Children to fire and ruin.

But damn that hobbit, damn him (praise him), for bringing Thorin back from despair. The moonlight revealed the secret door, and the ancient key unlocked it.

“I know this stone,” her Son whispered, half to her, half to himself. “I know these walls.” He rested his forehead against her and breathed deep. She wept anew, pleading with him – leave leave please go, the dragon is still here please _please Thorin_ – but he only swore to free her.

No good would come of this, she knew. Sorrow echoed in her deep tunnels.

The hobbit – he was important, somehow, she sensed – was sent below. Her Song carried a questioning note to Thorin. His own Song was coated in turmoil, regret, and fear. She promised to follow the hobbit, to do what she could for him, and found the small creature moving silently toward the dragon.

Little fool, she whispered, the dragon will wake!

But he was not one of her Children, and could not hear her warnings.

Smaug slept on, his enflamed heart beating slowly beneath the gold, until the hobbit tripped. The cascade of treasure uncovered the scaly head. The rest of the beast shifted, revealing the serpentine lengths slowly. Frozen with terror, the hobbit could only stand and watch as the dragon awakened. She tried to soothe the beast with whispers of treasure, but it was too late.

Smaug was awake.

Run! she told the hobbit, and run he did. His Song, she noticed, had changed. It was strangely muffled, and thin whispers of _evil_ sharpened each note. She could not reach him. She could only watch in horror as the dragon began searching for the hobbit, his great luminous eyes locking on to the fearful creature and demanding he reveal himself.

The Song inside the cavern soured, the pain of the sharp notes digging into her stone harder and harder until she thought she might crack – what was this, this evil this cacophony this pai - the pain vanished with a discorded crescendo. The hobbit’s Song had returned to its normal pattern, and the dragon crowed in triumph.

“I see you, thief!”

Fear shook deep down in her bones. This hobbit, with his Song so deeply twined with her Thorin’s, he could not be allowed to come to harm either. She turned back to the secret door, meeting Thorin halfway down the passage.

The dragon is awake, she told him, and he has your hobbit.

Thorin raced ahead without her, not caring that the dragon could devour him in an instant. Things were spiraling, spiraling out of her control – were they ever hers to control? She could not protect her Children now, only watch and weep as they ran to their deaths.

She could not risk collapsing the treasury cavern. The supporting stone was too weak; decades wasted housing the dragon had soured her structure. If she brought down the ceiling on top of Smaug, not only would she be killing the hobbit, but it would risk the lives of her children as well.

Everything began to happen at once. The hobbit escaped the dragon. Smaug’s rage was palpable, heating her stone as he chased the smaller creature. The company bravely followed their king below, the two young Children leading the way, their souls almost blindingly bright. Smaug’s screams shook her foundation and his fire blackened her walls. Thorin found the treasury –

\- and everything stopped.

No, please, no, she begged. Look away, please, Thorin no.

The sickness reared its ugly head from the bed of gold, left there by the dragon and Thrór, and whispered to Thorin’s Song. The brilliant blue of his eyes dimmed. His mind shuttered, withdrawing slightly from her Song.

_NO_

She swore, Ages ago, she swore she would protect them. No sickness, she swore, no poison, would touch her Children again. Thorin was hers, her strongest Son, and she was his. He would not, could not, fall to this evil. Not today, not ever.

_NO_

_HE IS **MINE**_

Her Deep Song rushed forward, surrounding Thorin. The sickness snarled at her and wove itself tighter, constricting the notes of Thorin’s Song. In retaliation, she showed Thorin memories of life before the dragon, dragging up as many happy thoughts she could find. The sickness’ hold was loosened, and she stripped it from Thorin’s Song immediately.

“I am not my grandfather,” he said quietly.

No, she soothed, you are so much more.

The hobbit came racing around the corner and collided with Thorin with both Song and body. Her own hold on Thorin was jarred slightly at the sudden appearance and symphonic rise, and she grappled once more with the sickness.

Despair washed through her stone at Thorin’s next words. She lost her grip on the sickness.

“The Arkenstone,” he said, poison darkening his voice and dimming his eyes. “Do you have it?” Even the hobbit could sense something was wrong, and he began to back away.

“Thorin – the dragon-”

“Did you find the Arkenstone?”

Never had he referred to her Heart by that false name. Never. Heavy footsteps echoed in the cavern, drawing her attention. Smaug was coming.

She shoved at Thorin. He had drawn his sword and was leveling it at the hobbit. Their Songs began to tangle and knot.

“Thorin,” the hobbit said, “Thorin, the dragon-”

Smaug is coming, you blind fool!

“There you are, thief!” Smaug snarled. “You will burn, you and Oakenshield together!” Heat crawled up the dragon’s throat and just as the flames spilled forth, Thorin snapped out of his stupidity, reaching for the hobbit. Together they ran, dodging down small, twisting tunnels. She guided them as much as Thorin’s weakened Song let her until they found their companions.  
The reunion was short lived. Smaug appeared ahead of them, and they scattered, leading him on a harrowing chase to the forges. Thorin’s plan was clever, unbelievably, beautifully clever, and for a moment, she thought it might work. The sickness was abated by his focus on the task at hand, and the dragon was enraged to the point of carelessness.

Her veins in molten form poured over Smaug, and he screamed, but what dragon was ever burned by fire?

The company despaired, and she with them. She could feel Thorin’s legs shaking through her stone. The hobbit slipped out the destroyed front gate, whispering, “What have we done?”

What, indeed, had they done? The dragon was no longer within her walls, and she could not see him if he was airborne. Surely their assault on him was nothing more than a hindrance? Where was he going?

She felt it, distantly, just beyond her southernmost arms, barely a minute later. Fire. Fury, wroth, and fire, and it all came raining down on the Men of the Lake. Together with her Children, she watched the flames grow as the dragon threw down his hate. There was nothing they could do.

“Come,” Thorin said, breaking the horrified silence. “We – we must prepare, lest the beast return.”

Slowly, the company retreated further into her halls. The hobbit remained at the gate, tears streaming down his face. His Song had changed again, this time to long, dark notes of guilt. Thorin called to him.

“It’s my fault,” he whispered when Thorin pulled at his elbow. “I taunted him, boasted about our journey – he knew we passed through Laketown. I said ‘barrels,’ and he knew.”

Thorin led the hobbit away from the gate and down the tunnel. “You cannot control that beast, Bilbo. His actions are his own, no matter what you told him. All we can do now is prepare ourselves.”

They followed the others, Erebor trailing behind them.

 

iii.

The sickness reappeared quietly. She did not notice, so gradual was its approach, until it was too late. With the dragon fallen into the lake to never resurface, she had assumed he would take the sickness with him. She was wrong.

Thorin had taken to walking randomly over the piles of gold, his mind crowded with worry and plans. The others marveled, as it the wont of Arda’s Children, at her treasures, and she thought nothing of it. Only the hobbit seemed unaffected by the shining masses. Instead, he poked idly at a small mound of sapphires, his small torso covered with Khazad-dûm’s silversteel.  
Flicking one small jewel away from him, the hobbit stood. “I think I’d like to see the sun again,” he said to the room at large. None replied. Frowning, he turned to Dori. “Come on, Dori, let’s go get a breath of fresh air!” Erebor could sense the forced cheer.

Dori barely spared the hobbit a glance. In his hands he cradled a silver circlet. “Isn’t it beautiful? The way the torchlight catches on the angles and curves… We could probably fashion you a lamp, if you like, that looks like the sun? That would be good enough for me, especially if we throw in a bit of silver.”

Curious words, even from a Child of Arda. Hovering over the hobbit’s shoulder, she peered into this particular Child’s Song.

Darkness roiled beneath the notes, the tune distressingly sharp and broken.

How? How could this continue to happen? What was she doing wrong?

She raced from Child to Child, growing more upset at each damaged note she heard. Even Fíli and Kíli, the two bright-hearts, were distracted by the collection of shining weaponry.  
With dread in her Song, she found Thorin alone, his eyes reflecting the golden hills around him. She called to him hesitantly, humming like she had when he was young. He did not acknowledge her. When she tapped into his Song, she found the barest of melodies, the short notes drowning in darkness. Not even her strongest Son could escape this horror, it seemed.

_Thorin_

_Thorin I have failed you_

_Please come back to me, Thorin_

_Thorin_

He did not reply to her pleas, only commanded the others to help him search for his Arkenstone. He was lost to her, lost like his grandfather, lost like his entire line. Had she done this? Had she, in her supposed love and care, brought this upon them? With darkness falling over her own Song, she retreated to where her Heart lay buried nearby. If Thorin put his hands on her Heart in his current state, she would break. If she was broken, she could not stop him from hurting himself and the others.

So, her Heart must be hidden, tipped it back into the rivers of Arda’s blood that ran beneath her. There it would be safe. As she slowly began to open a crack in the floor, she found herself distracted by the hobbit.

He watched Thorin closely, a calculating look in his eyes. She could not speak to his Song, but she could listen, and what she heard intrigued her. The hobbit was planning carefully, and when she heard his plans, she had an idea of her own.

The crack in her floor was snapped closed. Gently, she rolled the stone beneath the mounds of gold, the coins shifting and sliding gradually around the hobbit’s feet. He startled, a sound of surprise escaping him when the first light of her Heart began filtering through the coins.

“Good gracious,” he whispered, and she smiled.

It would be a good plan, hopefully.

 

iv.

Not long after, she sensed the movement of a great host over her foothills, and was astonished to find the First Born garbed in steel and leather. They marched over her desolate plains, accompanied by war-clad Men. From the north, the ugly sound of marching Abominations reached her. Armies, armies, daring to march on her?! She, the Lonely Mountain! Something had to be done, thought, it seemed, she would miss the chance to take care of it herself.

The hobbit cradled her Heart against his chest as he fled her halls.

“Do not abandon us,” he begged the kings of Men and First Born. “You will have your share of the treasure. Please, help us defend the mountain.” With trembling hands and watering eyes, he presented her Heart to them.

Her plan began to fall apart very quickly after that.

 

v.

Were he not one of her own Children, she would have killed him instantly.

Thorin lifted the hobbit by his throat, his eyes black with rage.

“How dare you! You who I trusted above all others! You traded that which I value most, my Arkenstone, to _them_!”

The hobbit shook, his face red as he fought for breath in Thorin’s grip. “Please.”

She screamed at him, threw everything she had at his Song, willing him to release the hobbit. Their Songs were intertwined, could he not see that? Any damage dealt to his hobbit was damage to himself as well! Fool!

Only the timely intervention of one of the Maiar saved the hobbit, and she wept when he was led away.

Thorin could see nothing beyond his own greed, she now knew. Not even one who shared his Song could shake him from this sickness.

He had been right, she realized, when he said he was nothing like his grandfather.

He had grown so much worse.

 

vi.

When the battle began, she knew not where to look. Her Children were scattered, blood running down their armor in rivers. The ground turned to crimson mud and her stone was stained and sticky. Abominations tangled with Men and First Born. The World Song had not favorites; each fell indiscriminately. The hobbit darted here and there, his Song once again cloaked.

A group of Abominations were clustered against her side, and she tore loose great boulders to rain down on them. They were crushed beneath her. Rocks continued to tumble from her side, however, and began to land amongst the First Born and Men. She struggled to calm the slide of stone, crying out when the hobbit was struck. He went down in a boneless heap, his body rolling into a shallow ditch before stilling completely.

What had she done? Was he – had she killed – no, no, say he lived, say she had not killed the one who shared Thorin’s Song.

She sifted through the horrible symphony of battle, searching.

There, buried beneath the dying notes of Abominations, she heard the faint chiming of the hobbit’s Song. He lived. He lived. There, sheltered by the shallow ditch, he would be as safe as possible at the moment, so she rushed to find Thorin.

She was twisting through the Songs of a group of Men when she felt it.

Her Song bottomed out, floundering as time slanted away from her and her foundations cracked. She felt as if she had been pierced by cold, hateful steel, her Song suddenly filled with holes that leaked wrecked notes. Thorin, where was Thorin? Where was he where where where where where

there

there, on his knees, in the blood-soaked earth

there, arrows sprouting from his back and shoulders

there, blood pouring from his chest

His life pumped out of his body, and he slumped sideways to the ground. Abominations advanced on him as he groped feebly in the crimson mud for his sword. In a flurry of shouting and silver, the two bright-hearts rushed the advancing danger. “Uncle!” they cried, and she understood.

They, too, were struck down in the end, their radiant Songs quieted forever by the stroke of a sword and sweep of an axe.

She screamed.

 

vii.

Distantly, she felt hands on her Heart. She did not care. Let them have it. It meant nothing, now. She could not protect her Children. She did not deserve a Heart.

The hobbit lived, even as Thorin faded. She could feel them both, their Songs in perfect harmony once more, in a tent at her feet.

By sunset, Thorin’s Song was silent.

By morning, the hobbit was gone, moving west with the Maia. He would not stay to see his own heart entombed. She did not blame him.

The hands that held her Heart bore it down to her lower halls. Her stone was silent, unmoving. It would remain that way, she decided. A living mountain brought only sorrow. Khazad-dûm had fallen, as had her brothers in the north. So, too, would she.

The hands carrying her Heart gently lowered it into a tomb crafted of her own skin, and she wept anew when she found herself resting upon Thorin’s cold chest. Fíli and Kíli lay on either side of him, their fiery souls extinguished.

A slab was slid over the lip of the tomb, sealing them away from the world. It was cold. All was quiet. She cast one last look over Thorin, wondering at how things could have been different. The melodies of her Song faded out, one by one, until only the simplest notes remained.

She let the melody play out, her consciousness fading with the light of her Heart. The final note filled the tomb. The light went out.

Erebor was silent.


End file.
